


Memento Mori

by kiyarasabel



Category: glanni glaepur í latabae
Genre: Miscarriage, Other, Read at Your Own Risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 07:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10531332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyarasabel/pseuds/kiyarasabel
Summary: Glanni's been sick before, but never anything like this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the worst thing I have ever written, I cried writing it and was compelled to write it from a place of pain. I have never been pregnant myself but I've heard grisly stories from those who have. I think it comes from the fact that I want to have children but am not in a life situation that allows it.

Glanni was sick, that much was clear. He'd been suffering for awhile from nausea, former boldly flavored favorites had become foul. This was different. It wasn't just feeling nausea, it wasn't just retching and puking and dry heaving. It felt like he was being punched in the gut, stabbed even. He was feverish, slightly delirious and in so much pain. He was in an alley, of course, the gravel of cracked asphalt pressing into his back, the reek of decay; garbage, piss, shit and vomit all layered on top of each other while fermenting.

Glanni was crying, it was fitting if this was where he was to die, as he could smell as well as feel blood pooling between his legs. He coughed on a sob in surprise, wondering what was wrong with him. At first he'd thought it was a case of food poisoning, it wouldn't be the first time he found himself sick and shitting himself over eating dodgy food. He realized now that this was something different. He had, naturally at some point still piss and shit himself in the agony, because what injury wasn't complete without insult, but he could tell now that his bleeding wasn't leaking from his ass.

He managed to strip off his catsuit between pains and it dangled at his knees as Glanni blindly groped along his taint, perplexed when his fingers fell into a depression just short of his anus. He couldn't think about what it meant as the pain made him curl into himself. It was reaching a peak and he wasn't sure how he had managed to remain conscious through it all, or even if he had. The pain had begun much earlier in the day, maybe even days over the course of the last week, or weeks. Time was unclear to him. 

The dirty grey smudge of dawn was approaching and he crawled deeper into the alley, hiding himself behind a dumpster so that none of the mob of early morning rush business people would find him. The last thing he wanted now was well meaning pity, or worse, the attention of bystanders or even the authorities.

He could feel something tearing out of him and he would have been trying to figure out what organ he could be expelling in such a manner if it didn't hurt so damn much. He'd heard of hernias but this didn't seem right at all. He was face down in a pile of garbage damp newspapers and what he could only hope was his own vomit when he realized that the worst of the pain was over.

Delicately, he rolled onto his back as he reached to the lump between his thighs. It was firm and cooling in the night air. Similarly, the sweat sheen on his body was suddenly frigid after the exertions and he started to shiver violently. He hardly noticed as his brain started to recognize the shape of what he held in his hands.

It was tiny, especially compared to what it had felt like tearing its way out of him. It barely filled the cup of his palm, curled up and rapidly cooling. He choked on another sob, curling his fingers in carefully and pulling it to his chest. He had to cry for what seemed like hours before he could even bring himself to think the words of what this meant.

He'd had a baby. It was dead. It was his fault. The drinking, the smoking, the fighting. He hadn't known, he didn't know, he couldn't have known but it was still so definitively his fault. He sobbed his apologies to the tiny corpse clutched to his chest. When that bout of tears finally subsided and the morning sun began to beat down upon him he could finally question the why and how.

It was fuzzy at first as he recalled that it had been an unacknowledged part of his upbringing in the Court that sometimes boys or girls would find themselves different than their peers, find that they were not the boy or girl that they thought. He'd briefly considered being a girl for a stretch in his teen years before he began to appreciate the positive effects of his masculine characteristics. Thinking of Elven biology was what made the next stage of revelation strike him.

This was Íþróttaálfurinn's baby. Glanni found himself looking again at the tiny body in his hands. It seemed to be a boy. He'd given birth to Íþróttaálfurinn's son. He'd given birth to a son. He'd given birth to a child. His child. He and Íþróttaálfurinn had a child. And he had killed it. Glanni broke again.

He had managed to redress himself by the time the afternoon light began to heat the stench of the mess surrounding him. He finally severed the baby from the placenta and shoved himself onto his feet. He stumbled at first, keeping the baby clutched to his chest in one hand and using the other to support him against the wall and dumpster.

Slowly he collected his thoughts and went to a truck stop with an automated shower system. He didn't feel better after cleaning the filth from himself, the baby and his catsuit. He didn't care that he was soaking wet as he sloshed into the convenience store attached to the truck stop. He looked through the tacky tourist knick knacks and finally found a tasteful enough box of the right size.

He didn't know where he was going, still lightheaded, dizzy and ill, pain defining his form to anchor him to reality. He wandered down the street like a ghost, half convinced that he had died with his baby. It was an easier thought to bear than the reality.

He wasn't a religious man. He'd never had faith in any gods, had preferred to be his own master. He didn't believe in fate or karma, only the inevitable action of humanity acting against its own self interest. He was a little surprised that he wandered into a church. It was an old stone building, drafty with ancient stained glass painting the airy room in a brilliant rainbow against the white walls. He wasn't sure where he was, what part of the building he was in. Somehow he found his way slumped into a pew.

“Are you okay?” Someone asked him softly. “Do you need help?”

Glanni laughed bitterly. “I'm always okay. No one can help me.”

The evident priest seemed taken aback and tried to say something no doubt uplifting but the criminal cut him off.

“I'm not here for me. It's too late for me, I'm hopeless.” He scoffed, ignoring the tears which started. “I had a baby... He's dead... I don't know what to do.” He tilted the box in explanation. “Don't... Don't tell me any bullshit, of course everything happens for a reason, and the reason for this is that I am a terrible human being who doesn't deserve responsibility for my own life much less another. I'm just here because I want him to be treated like something more than the trash I am. His father would appreciate it, if he knew, I think. Something with flowers or a garden with something.”

“A funeral.” The priest offered softly.

Glanni blinked. It sounded obvious in retrospect.

“Does your baby have a name?” The young man asked gently.

“N-no... I... I didn't even know until...” He was so angry that he couldn't speak, that he was crying where someone, anyone really, could see him.

“Let's go to the garden.” The priest extended a hand.

Glanni glared at the offending limb before gripping the arm with tight fingers and dragging himself to his feet.

“Do you need a doctor? Should I call someone? An ambulance?”

“I'm fine.” Glanni grumbled. “I've had worse.” Even as he said it, leaning heavily on the shorter man, he wasn't sure if it was the truth.

It was nice in the cemetery, leaves rustling in the wind like hushed whispers, the somber atmosphere validating his mood. The priest led him to a quiet corner, and indicated a small patch of dirt between the flowers growing along the border wall and the very edge of the yard.

“I apologize that it won’t really be very deep, but I assure you that this side of the area gets very little use and i will mark it with a stone. Have you thought about a name or do you just want it to say Baby?” The priest asked as he started to dig with a trowel.

“I’m thinking.” Glanni grumbled, watching the dirt mound growing as the hole deepened. “What’s your name?” He added after a long pause.

“Rúben.” The priest offered cheerfully, pleasantly surprised by the gesture.

“Like the sandhich?” He scoffed.

“No. It’s meaning…” He continued while digging.

“I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, kid won’t grow up to get picked on and become a priest anyway. Rúben it is. Rúben Einar Ithrottaalfurinsson.”

“Okay.” The priest, Rúben, smiled. “Is there anything you would like to keep as a memento?”

“No, I don’t need a reminder.” Glanni sat against the trunk of a tree to watch, his legs aching, nodding off as the young priest dug the grave.

“Hey, it’s time.” Came the soft voice as Rúben gently tapped Glanni’s shoulder. The criminal barely restrained the reflex to lash out, mostly on account of his extreme exhaustion. “Do you want to say a few words?”

“Nah, I’m not good with this sort of thing.” Glanni reluctantly placed the box in the bottom of the hole, biting back tears. He knew they would win, but he would die before he stopped fighting.

“Okay, is there anything in particular you would like me to say? A favorite poem, lullaby, scripture verse.” He asked, kneeling with Glanni.

“Just, whatever is the right kind of thing to say at these, so I feel like I did the right thing.”

Rúben put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing great. I believe you’ve done everything you can.”

Glanni sniffed and wiped the back of his arm across his face.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the loss of a life we never got to know. Little Rúben Einar Ithrottaalfurinnsson, go with peace, and know that you are loved.” He wasn’t sure if he should continue, but it felt as if he had said what was needed. “If you would like, people usually throw in flowers and a handful of dirt symbolically.”

“Okay.” Glanni gruffed, grabbing a handful of bright blue flowers and tossing them in followed by dirt.

Rúben started to push the dirt back into the hole and Glanni helped, wordlessly, as he wept.

**Author's Note:**

> In at least one universe this will lead to a happy ending.


End file.
